it’s too much pain to view them in my brain
the brain hungry the eyes always feed it
processes everything as sadness I eat the cosmos
with sight yet fixate on what I have
lost everything a miracle of blood and dust
around me and in the fog I loop December
nights with the dull orange parking lot lights
we walked under to get home and in my hand
there are snapshots of us holding hands
everywhere in the known universe!
(originally published in New Pop Lit, Summer 2020)
Swiss mountains, Chilean volcanoes, a beach in Vancouver–
currently, my hands grip a steering wheel. In the passenger
seat is a black bag. Inside, a paper bag. Inside, a salad, or
sandwich, or scone, or soup. The bread is probably hard
as stone. I scroll your travels from the safety of a stoplight.
I am far from the only wanderlust trapped in the confines
of a tipped job. I’d drive my Ford into the ocean. Sink into
the Atlantic and arrive somewhere you haven’t heard of.
(originally published in Lines + Stars, Spring 2019)
Cold fronts enter spring, but cardinals
sing their frigid songs despite soft snow.
Red lips still curl over the sidewalk’s cigarettes
but warmth dissipates when smoke leaves the body.
Pale hands reach from corners of blurry photographs–
push through crowds of these-were-my-lovers–
tines of bright puncture darkness. Negative dust
turns to light: the telescope observed your eyes
wandering the dark. Believe the perched cardinal
is lost love thinking of you who sculpts the moon
out of papier-mâché– scope the abyss for stars
but smell the art’s silver crumble on your skin.
(originally published in Thirteen Myna Birds, Fall 2016)